More Between Us Chapter 67/? "Chain Reactions"
More Between Us, Chapter 67/? "Chain Reactions"
[Chain Reactions]Day 21, New Year’s Eve, Evening
Good. Sylar got up and went about searching for a loose chain he’d had lying around. Literal chain. It was part of a clock’s pendulum that he’d been repairing before Peter appeared. He located it and dug about in his desk drawers for wire to tie the chain ends around Peter. As he did, he wondered what, if anything, he should be feeling about this opportunity, this situation.
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He’s going to untie me after a little bit, right? What’s he going to do? Should I tell him what to do? But will that matter? Because once I’m tied up, it doesn’t matter what he promised, and that's the whole point. He wants me to show him I trust him. Can I do that? Peter was breathing harder already, a little bit of sweat damping his brow. He got to his feet, uncomfortable and trying to squelch his desire to fight back or run away, by taking some other action. He moved around the desk to sit in Sylar’s chair. He told himself he didn’t want to be restrained in something that had wheels on the bottom, but mainly he was just doing something so he had some feeling of control.
Peter held his hands behind his back, letting Sylar position them however he saw fit. He sat up straighter at the sight of the chain - not that he would have been any more able to escape from rope, but the unforgiving metal was a reinforcement that he wasn’t going to be going anywhere. He dipped his head and stared at his knees while Sylar restrained him, trying not to be nauseous.
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“Take my chair, will you?” Sylar joked after the fact. The move made no sense. Aside from moving without permission or direction, it wasn’t going to pose any problems to the plan. Sylar made to kneel, wobbling slightly, then went about wrapping the chains (clock chains, how kinky) around Peter’s wrists. He slid the wire into the loops of chain, twisting and tying efficiently at the backs of Peter’s hands - away from fingers and palms that could free the man. The nurse would have to work (or negotiate) his way out. He thought Peter’s hands might have been shaking but he dismissed it as that pesky eye-motion of being drunk. All the same, he smoothed the man’s hands out straight, just to feel them (a little clammy), before standing, lingering unseen behind him.
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Thoughts of other bindings slipped through Peter’s mind. The most parallel incident was being tied up in Ireland and then repeatedly beaten to a pulp by whatever degree of violence three very frustrated, hardened smugglers had wanted to visit on him. That was quite a bit of violence, as it turned out - broken bones in his face and jaw, no telling what else as he’d blacked out a few times and been rudely awakened. He would thank God for regeneration, but brown-haired Claire from the future had shown him how easy it was to torture someone who had that ability. He’d been tied down for that, too. Just like waking up powerless with his father, or handcuffed to the inside of that cargo container, or strapped down in level five, or helpless on a gurney as Mohinder came at him with a syringe. It had been Sylar who had released him then. He seized on that thought, turning to look at his captor with wide eyes and pale features that showed a lot more of his fear than he wanted them to. He tried not to think of all the reasons Sylar had to hurt him, but he still flinched back from him involuntarily, his expression shifting to an angry snarl to cover his anxiety.
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“Stop that,” Sylar said parent-like, patronizing the snarl, tapping Peter’s cheek as he passed (assuming, testing that the man wouldn’t try to bite him). Seeing Peter tied up and combative…well, it reminded him of more sadistic, necessary times. Like confining and torturing Agent Simmons, a probably-attractive man who made a similar expression, spitting and holding out…Sylar paced around his catch, admiring the angles, the helplessness. Silly Peter. Once again he failed to set limits on his own Dares. Sylar had purposefully made them vague as part of the test and Peter…took it wholesale. It was brave and stupid. He didn’t speak, just circled. After a few rotations, he sat against his desk in front of Peter, looking at his face (it took extra effort not to cross his arms and lean like Nathan). He could smell the fear coming off Peter, who wasn’t trying to hide it; at least, he wasn’t doing a great job of hiding it. “Wo-ow…” Sylar slowly slurred facetiously before commanding seriously, “Relax.” Of course, he said that after he’d let the guy sweat it out. It was like good imagination training for Peter, picturing all the ways Sylar owned him in this moment.
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Just shut up. This was a spectacularly bad idea, on par with getting carried away showing himself off and getting turned on by it. Peter did not always make the best decisions sober. What he was beginning to regret even more than letting himself be tied up was getting drunk to start with. If Sylar kept this up, the regret would extend to ever trusting him in any capacity. He glared ferociously at Sylar, chest heaving more than he wanted it to be doing as he pulled in short, rapid breaths through his open mouth. He kept up near-constant eye contact, thoughts wavering uncertainly between Sylar taking the opportunity to beat the crap out of him or perhaps kill him, or just scaring him a little and then letting him go. That he wasn't getting any signals either way made him think Sylar probably hadn't made up his mind. The perception of Sylar having an ambivalence that wouldn't rule out murder or torture made Peter very, very jumpy.
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“This is usually the part where I tell you everything I can do to you while you’re helpless. It’s almost pointless now, huh? You never expected to be in this position, did you?” Sylar tilted his head to observe his companion. “Obviously not. You don’t set any limits and tha-at…” he lilted his voice, canting his head the opposite direction now, “leads to temptation.” The trust (or stupidity) was inviting trouble. Sylar didn’t know whether to honor it because being trusted was a sacred event, something he yearned for as a rite of passage to being respected, worthwhile, treated normally…Or if he should abuse it and teach Peter a lesson that offering himself up like this would have consequences; the empath shouldn’t presume upon Sylar’s self-control.
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Are you honestly saying you haven't had the opportunity before now? And people say I'm slow … I've been aware of how helpless I was the entire fucking time I've been here! Any night I want I could bash your brains out or poison the milk and you could do the same to me. Peter would have intensified his glare if that were possible. As it was, his expression morphed into disgust. People were fragile - an elementary lesson Peter had figured out a very long time ago.
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Sylar moved forward, straddling Peter’s legs, fairly close until the chair blocked his knees. This put him face to face with the shorter man who inhaled and leaned back. Peter was sweating and that wouldn’t do. Sylar’s head slanted at that. “What are you trying to prove?” he asked, curious, reaching for Peter’s confiscated shirt, bringing it up to dab away the sweat at Peter’s hairline. Perfect. It was like an autographed shirt now.
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Peter pressed backwards in the chair at Sylar's untelegraphed approach, startled a second time when the guy literally sat on him. He restrained himself from shifting his knees under Sylar's buttocks, carrying most of Sylar's weight now. Bucking him off, kicking him, head-butting him - Peter didn't feel as helpless as Sylar implied he was. It wasn't like he was tied to the chair, which left him a lot of mobility, should he need to use it. Peter was still placing his bets on Sylar not getting carried away. He twitched his head back from the shirt coming at his face, but it wasn't enough to evade Sylar's reach. It jogged his mind into replaying when Caitlyn had performed nearly the same function, showing him a kindness that he had seized with desperation.
“I'm trying to prove I wasn't wrong in coming here.”
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Sylar paused at everything but thinking for a moment. There was that expectation that Sylar had to meet to make it worth Peter's while. If he didn't play along, go along, do what was required of him, he'd have 'brought it on himself' and the effort to...find him (that was the best he could call it) would be worthless, the same as he would be. He would be responsible for Peter regretting finding him. It wasn't like there was a reason besides desperate need that Peter would come looking for him, as much as he caught himself wishing there was. "And I still don't like your reasons for doing it."
Finished with cleaning him, Sylar threw the shirt away for safekeeping, then dropped his hands to Peter’s throat. His palms and fingers flat against the soft column, his thumbs idly traced circles into the flesh without pressure. Hell, even Nathan agreed this was an attractive feature of Peter’s. Lazily, he sent a checking glance to the Italian’s eyes, which avoided his. His captive was tense and unhappy. A pity. It angered him but he couldn’t see a better, more mutual solution, so he ignored it with effort, but not after threatening by wrapping his hands lovingly around Peter’s neck in a stranglehold. It was light; he just wanted to make a point and defuse his anger.
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Peter might have said something in response to that, but then Sylar’s hands were on his throat. Was the guy cold enough to calmly choke him to death, or until he passed out, simply because he could? Peter had little indication that he wasn’t. That he was even hinting at it, given Sylar’s record and Sylar knowing that Peter knew of that record, went beyond ‘fucking with you’ or ‘scaring you a little’ and well into sadistic. Although again, Peter had that impression that Sylar hadn’t made up his mind yet. Kill Peter/Don’t kill Peter - it was just an interesting question in the mind of a sociopath. One line in a story he’d read about sociopaths had stood out to him - a teen had drowned a neighbor child in the pool because he was curious about how long it would take him to die. Was that what was going on with Sylar? Abstract curiosity about how much he could abuse his companion?
Peter pulled his head back, looking away and continuing to look away. Sylar’s face, utterly lacking in empathy, revolted him. Peter made a couple throat noises in protest, swallowing and starting to twist his neck one way and then the other in a vain attempt to evade the contact. Sylar had grabbed him there before - during the fight, wasn’t it? Peter bared his teeth, face hard. His anger was starting to overwhelm his fear.
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The reaction helped. Sylar wanted other reactions, more of…something - more protest or invitation, interaction, something. It would have to do. “Shh,” was all he said, doing no more than flexing his fingers harmlessly before releasing and moving on. His hands slid down to the man’s shoulders, testing them with familiar squeezes. This was an overtly Petrelli gesture, one he’d performed (successfully!) before. It was…comforting. Maybe it would help relax Peter as well. His hands traveled over clavicles to pectorals. These he pushed, not to shove Peter back into the chair, but to test…what, firmness? He didn’t know; he just did, following his instincts. Peter’s nipples were hard, his flesh prickly with goose bumps. Interesting… Sylar bent a little to view them better, circling the tight oval buds with his fingertips. He wasn’t sure what to expect for this.
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Sylar moved on from the dangerous grip on his throat. Peter let out a tense breath at the shoulder squeeze, wondering what that was all about. The normally-friendly motion stopped the upward spiral of his rage. His eyes went back to Sylar’s face, but Peter still wasn’t getting what he wanted there, or what he needed. The guy was back to being a pain in the ass and a problem, pawing Peter’s chest now in a manner that was damnably stimulating. Peter gritted his teeth, feeling his skin prickle in involuntary response. Sylar stared at Peter’s nipples like he’d only just noticed them. That look and presumptive touch that followed it made Peter want to punch him. He squirmed, flexing his arms against the chains. They were firm enough and unyielding, the metal pressing into his skin at the pressure. No easy way out there. He pulled his feet back, shifting his center of gravity.
Sylar didn’t seem to notice, as he teased around Peter’s nipples with exploring fingers, oblivious and inconsiderate of the desires of the owner of those sensitive parts. “Hey!” Peter barked to get his attention. “No. The dare was you could tie me up, not molest me.”
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Sylar looked up, an eyebrow raised in question and curiosity. This is molesting you? “You’re the one who didn’t put any limits on it in the first place.” He didn’t appreciate being given limits now, so he pinched the protrusions to be a jerk.
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Okay, that’s it! “Get off of me!” Peter stood up, dumping Sylar on the floor. The guy had placed most of his weight on Peter’s knees rather than any closer on his lap, so it wasn’t that hard to get up and let gravity do its work on him. Peter had recovered a lot of mobility in the last week - he didn’t limp at all anymore and he didn’t need to use his arms to stand. As he stood over the man, he snarled at him, “I don’t need to put limits on it! Unless you plan on killing me, you’re going to be dealing with me tomorrow, along with the consequences of what you do tonight.” He said the last through bared teeth.
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One minute his hands were on Peter, the next Sylar was up-ended on his ass. Mostly he was confused as to how he got there - Peter had lifted his whole weight using his knees? He certainly failed to predict any attack other than verbal from his supposed-captive. That captive was now upright, looming over him, bare-chested with his arms tied behind his back, looking extremely volatile. I did not see this coming, didn’t plan for it. Oh, crap. Sylar could really only manage a stunned expression, staring up at Peter with wide eyes. He was going to be kicked, he didn’t question that. It took him far too long to respond. “Then how do I know where the limits are?” Petrelli’s logic made no sense. His tone perplexed, Sylar clarified, “So I need to kill you in pre-emptive self-defense?”
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He crowded Sylar threateningly, discouraging him from getting up with the implication that he might kick him if he split his attention enough to attempt it. “You don’t like my reasons for being here? Fine! Give me some better ones. Tell me why I should have dropped everything and flown across the country to set my brother’s killer free so he could go on doing the same thing he’s been doing for the last few years - ruining people’s lives, or ending them, or maybe just tying them up and scaring the crap out of them - whatever happened to make you happy at the time. Tell me why I should care about someone like that.”
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Sylar found his back against the desk, his body way too close to Peter’s boots. There was no space to stand up. He would have to move right and slither around the corner of the desk towards more space…Already, he was in motion to do just that, anything to get away, awkwardly lifting and backwards crawling his retreat. It was the words Peter hurled, more than the threat of violence, that angered him. “Well, then I guess your only reason is my usefulness! That’s the only reason there ever is! I never asked you for anything!” Sylar spat his reply, making it clear that Peter was here of his own free will and that Sylar hadn’t overstepped himself in requesting, demanding, pleading for something above his worth. He couldn’t give Peter a better reason and he couldn’t decide who to blame more, himself or Peter and the rest of the world. His eye line finally dropped from Peter’s upper body, mostly his face, to target the man’s legs, giving serious consideration to the idea of kicking, even maiming Peter with a kick or two as his expression lifted into a snarl. Impulsivity and reactive, unprocessed anger won out and he kicked at the floor near Peter’s feet to make a statement that he wasn’t taking this or any other shit; in doing so, purposefully swatting the bee’s nest, pulling the tiger’s tail, knowing that and doing it anyway. Get away from me!
He was around the desk now, so Peter would have to follow him. As it was, Sylar was managing to sit up and make it to hands and knees; feeling like his vision wasn’t working right because the world was blurry. He was trying to hurry and having mixed results given his balance. If he could just stand, he’d have the advantage.
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Peter stayed on top of Sylar as the man retreated, weathering a few flailing blows at him in the process. For a little while, he could keep to the side of Sylar's long legs, but when Sylar got around the desk and ran up against his bed, chair off to the side, Peter had no choice but to back off. He didn't want to hurt Sylar (he'd never so much as started to kick him), but he'd sure encouraged the impression of immediate danger. Now he lashed out verbally. "You want more! If you didn't want me to have other reasons, then you wouldn't resent the ones I have!" Backing up a little, he jerked his chin up challengingly and demanded, "Give me better reasons, Sylar."
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As he stood, Peter stopped advancing, but he didn’t stop talking. Sylar looked down and off to the side. ‘Give me a reason to save you,’ that’s what Peter meant. The answer was still the same: his skills and scientific value were the only reasons for preserving his life, the only things keeping him alive. Petrelli knew it and insisted in rubbing his face in it. What do you want me to say? I already basically admitted I’m worthless, barely useful for the moment. The message he was getting was he couldn’t wish for more out of this or any other situation; laid to rest was the idea of getting help. Accept it and be grateful even though it’s wrong? That made him so hopelessly angry; he had no grounds for argument, no bargaining chips, no favorable history. He wanted to defend and advocate for himself, tell of his great, special worth he knew didn’t exist; he wanted to beg for mercy so he could be accepted again because he had a feeling Peter was right but he was disgusted, loathing himself, feeling more anger for that cursed instinct. How had everything gotten so out of control? Peter was totally vulnerable and here he was making Sylar feel like this.
“Sit down,” he croaked, separating the words as best he could. It was all he could think to say. He wanted Peter seated so he wasn’t a threat, he wanted to regain control, and he still, stupidly, didn’t want Peter to leave. The game had been fun, for the most part, until now. He didn’t want to release Peter or change his behavior to suit the man in any way, but if the medic was going to be this mean and moody, Sylar would untie him, lest Peter inevitably find him at fault in yet another way.
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Peter milled around the living room uneasily, keeping his eyes on Sylar nearly the whole time. Peter was still tied up; Sylar was on his feet now. Sylar looked awfully unsteady, but Peter had just chewed his head off. Sylar looked crushed, frustrated, and angry. One favorite way for people to deal with such emotions was to beat down the source of them. When would the retaliation come? Peter wasn't sure what he could do about it when it happened - running away wasn't a good option. Getting the front door open while being attacked would be impossible; counter-attacking was going to be pretty rough and his attempts so far to slip his bonds weren't going well. He'd obviously managed to get his bluff in on Sylar after dumping him on his ass, but it was a play he probably couldn't run twice. When he wasn't watching Sylar, he was glancing around the room, taking stock of his options. They didn't look good.
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“Sit your ass down so I can untie you, you ungrateful punk,” Sylar snapped, scraping his hair back with an agitated hand, waiting for compliance.
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You're going to untie me? Peter gave Sylar an uncertain, breath-holding look, waiting to see if a second shoe would fall. There didn't seem to be much combat advantage to Sylar getting him seated again - Peter felt just as easy to beat up on his feet as he would sitting. He moved to the chair slowly, sitting down sideways on it, facing away with his bound hands proffered hopefully.
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When Peter sat, Sylar crouched down to see where the wire connected. “It’s so convenient that you’re the only one who gets to judge and you won’t trust me or give me any chances to prove myself. Your system doesn’t work; it never has and it doesn’t work here,” he sneered, freeing the man’s hands and stepping back in anticipation of an altercation. “I suggest you stay put or I’m not going to take it well,” he said as a warning. With that, he walked back to Peter’s previous seat, the wheeled chair that belonged to the desk, keeping his distance from Peter as he did. He sat with his arms across his chest and a depressed, watch-your-step glower.
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Aside from turning to sit properly in the chair, Peter stayed put. He regarded Sylar with curiosity, frankly surprised the episode was over. After a few seconds of silence, he started to speak. “I don't-”
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Sylar turned to him and held up a hand, “Shut up. I don’t care, I don’t want to hear it. I pick Dare.”
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Peter drew in a deep breath and let it out. I don't get to speak; don't get to explain myself. Okay. He glanced down thoughtfully, rubbing at the impressions the chain had made on his wrists. He's comfortable enough with me to tell me to stuff it and expect me to do it. Three weeks ago, I think he'd have gotten more upset, listened and reacted. We're … I think we're getting better with each other. Peter shook his head. “I'm not going to play anymore,” he said quietly. “I'm tired, we're both drunk, and this is getting really serious. Let's get some sleep.” Before something happens that we can't walk away from.
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Sylar closed his eyes and pursed his lips in an effort to control his outburst of rage and frustration. He wanted to tear every hair from Peter’s head, preferably in clumps. At that same time, nausea rose up in him, protesting his churning stomach and it’s alcoholic contents. He turned green, breathed harder to keep things smooth…to no avail. Sylar dashed for the bathroom, making it in time to vomit into the toilet in misery. His mouth was sour, his stomach was sour, he was sure his soul was sour, too. Feeling brittle, bitter and embarrassed, he spit and swiped at his face, pushing his hair back with his other hand. What did any of it matter? He was worthless and in addition to wanting to die, he felt like he physically could now.
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Peter watched Sylar's expression darken, then shift, right before the guy fled to the bathroom. The door was left open in his haste; the sound of emesis turning Peter's stomach a little in sympathy. He waited a beat before rising. He announced himself as he entered the small bathroom. “Sylar, I'm coming in. Stay put.” He pulled down the hand towel next to the sink and wet it, crouching next to Sylar.
Peter balanced himself by his left shoulder against the door of the cabinet under the sink. He reached out with his right slowly towards Sylar's face, brushing the hair out of the way with his fingertips. He followed it with the dampened hand towel, repeating the motions Sylar had used on him only minutes earlier to dab away frightened sweat. In a calm, neutral tone, he said, "You proved yourself just now by untying me, and doing that after I'd blown up at you. Someone who was mean and liked hurting people wouldn't have passed up the opportunity, especially with the excuse. But it's not your first instinct. I see that. You're giving me better reasons, Sylar, even when you don't think you are." He reached past Sylar to toggle the toilet, flushing away the foul.
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Sylar sat still, caught between protesting and melting into the caring touches. He couldn’t help the feeling; it felt good to be babied a little. He could help his reaction and that was what he had to control; he just wasn’t sure what, if any, reaction was appropriate or expected. Surely being neutral about it wouldn’t get him into too much hot water…Slowly Peter’s words penetrated his mental fog. Not my first instinct? How…? But…? It is, though. The depressive wave drowned him again at the remembrance of his own nature. I don’t take care of things; I’m not nice; why would he think that? It felt wrong to let Peter walk away unscathed after making those comments and assumptions but Sylar rationalized it with his own unfit condition. I’m…tired. I’ll get him in the morning. Stomach feeling somewhat purged, drowsiness was his next state of being. He wanted to cling to Peter with very little reason. (I didn’t mean to upset you, I just wanted…I don’t know what I wanted, something stupid probably). His defensiveness demanded that he make a statement, “I’m drunk and drunk people do stupid things. Mercy is not…a permanent character flaw. The Dare was just…over.” That’s all. (Don’t excuse my behavior. If you give me an out, I’ll take it and that’s the problem. I’ll pay for it later when you expect more of it or something).
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“Mercy is not a character flaw,” Peter said softly. He glanced over Sylar, not seeing anything in particular that needed cleaning, but a cool cloth and a pleasant distraction could do more for nausea than most medicines. He wiped one side and then the other of Sylar's face, offering him the towel to see to his mouth. Peter sank to the floor, back against the cabinet, legs bent. He was tired and his stomach a little upset as well. They hadn't had anything to eat for a while - nothing to buffer the alcohol and the near-fight didn't help. “Let's get some sleep. We can talk more tomorrow.”
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Closing his eyes for a moment, allowing the terrycloth to dab at his face was soothing, his breath starting and stopping at the simple sensations. God, you’re pathetic. No sooner had he thought it than Peter handed the towel off and made to move away. Is he leaving? Nooo… Sylar reached out and caught his fingers in Peter’s jeans (what little grip he could get in the tight, unyielding fabric). The other man sat to his relief. Stay; yes. “No, we won’t,” Sylar said grimly, self-assured. “We won’t talk about it tomorrow or any other time. Even if we do, nothing changes tomorrow or the next day…It’s just…nature and nature continues itself.” He gestured, his elbow still propped against the rim of the toilet. Faking a brilliant smile for a few seconds, he slurred his way through, “Shh. It’ll be our little secret.” Nothing has to change. Change is scary and you don’t know what you’re talking about.
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Peter watched Sylar talk more than he listened to the words. You look really sad that we won't talk about it. I wonder what it is he doesn't want to talk about? Peter smiled at Sylar's smile - even if inauthentic, it was still a nice smile. And the 'it's our little secret' …? He decided to take that one as a joke, even if Sylar seemed creepily serious about it. “Yeah, a secret no one else in the whole world knows about.” Peter chuckled, looking away to stare ahead, which put the bathroom door as the only thing to see. Sylar was more interesting, so he looked back and rambled helpfully, “We can talk about whatever you want to talk about. You know. Pretty much. Within limits, I guess.”
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Drowsiness turned to sleepiness, his head feeling heavy, body lax and warm, Sylar had the random and ridiculous urge to slide into bed around Peter. He wasn’t thinking that his bed was a cot, hardly big enough for the two of them and the fact that Peter wouldn’t be caught dead sleeping close to him. He’d make the perfect teddy bear - he’s so soft. “Come,” he meant ‘come on,’ but he simply forgot the last word, his mouth wouldn’t form it or something, and was too tired or lazy to include it. He indicated for Peter to rise and follow him as he stood. “Come,” he took an unseeing, loose hold of some part of Peter, jeans, body, it didn’t matter as he reached back, trying to lead his companion to the mattress.
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Peter got to his feet, the rise from floor to standing more difficult to keep his balance through than the transition from chair to feet. He waited while Sylar passed him, getting tugged along by Sylar reaching back and gripping at his forearm. It was only a few steps to Sylar's bed and he'd made two of them before he realized Sylar wasn't trying to direct him to sit in the office chair or lead him over to look at something on the desk. Peter stopped, slipping free of Sylar's loose hold. A wash of wariness swept away some of the inebriated exhaustion that had started to fog his thinking. It wasn't nearly as fogged as it needed to be for that to work on him. Peter would have been madder about being led to the guy's bed if he'd thought Sylar was more sober. He muttered something in the negative and went to the couch, picking at the folded blanket and sheet set off to the side at one end.
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Peter moved away and left Sylar watching from his seat on the bed with a crushing loneliness as Peter set up his sleeping area on the couch. It was close, they were in the same room, but it wasn’t close enough and he didn’t want to let it drop. “Can I sleep with you?” he blurted, not intending to say that at all. It was truthful and sure to be shot down.
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That sounds so sad. And pathetic. And what would it hurt? Peter hesitated, blanket partly spread across the couch, mid-glance over at Sylar as a reaction to the words. Wordlessly leading him to bed got Peter's back up - it was presumptuous, irritating, and scary. But asking? His shoulders sagged and the edge of the blanket slithered out of his fingers. Asking worked. Sort of. “No, but-” Peter stepped over to him, gesturing at Sylar's bed. “Lie down. I'll … sit next to you for a little bit.”
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No. Of course it was ‘no.’ Despite it being time for bed and his tiredness, Sylar didn’t want to sleep, not alone, not so far away. What he needed was so vague he couldn’t label it; he just knew falling asleep near or against Peter would content him. The alternative was, just as vaguely, frightening; something about the lights going out and being alone and defenseless against what was coming. He glanced up hopefully at the second part of the sentence. Really? It wasn’t exactly what he wanted, but it would help. What is wrong with me? Trusting Peter Petrelli to sit over me while I try to sleep? What good will that do? He turned, lying down and began to situate himself, looking up at the suddenly very tall medic. I wonder if this is a bad idea, he ruminated blandly, unworried about the probability or even possibility. Do parents do this? Is that…I don’t know.
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I've seen futons wider than this. Peter helped drape the blanket over Sylar and then nudged at his hip to get him to scoot over. It was barely enough space to sit on. He looked at the chair and considered rolling it close, but didn't. He could already feel a little of the warmth of Sylar's form through the thin blankets and he liked it. Peter was cool and still shirtless. He glanced around, but he'd missed wherever Sylar had put the shirt. He assumed it was on the other side of the desk, probably on top of the pile of board games. That seemed impossibly far away at the moment. It was easier to look at Sylar's face than consider where the shirt was. It was such a handsome face.
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The assistance and nudging, the implied soon-to-be-reality contact caused Sylar to give a hum of pleasure. Peter wouldn’t bother with all of this just to hurt him, so this was safe to feel. He could feel sleep creeping closer to him; for now he lazily watched Peter look around the room before focusing on Sylar again. Peter looked at him and Sylar looked back, enduring a welter of reactions, reasons and emotions about it. He felt warm and fuzzy as he enjoyed the attention; he would have been completely satisfied, fulfilled even, if Peter lay beside him. Perhaps that’s what he was trying to convey with everything tonight.
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The allure of lying down right here was strong. They'd managed to get through the evening without beating each other up; many truths had been exchanged, secrets shared, trust built. Sylar was right here, human, warm, trying to be friendly, and succeeding wildly at not being offensive or threatening. He was clothed; Peter was at least wearing jeans, so nothing would happen, right? Peter was about as drunk as he could be and still walk straight. Looked at soberly, the evening was a collection of increasingly poor decisions - telling things he probably shouldn't have, stripping and being turned on by it, asking invasive questions, and letting himself be tied up. But he wasn't sober.
Peter pulled his eyes away from Sylar's, looking vacantly in the direction of the couch. He was struggling to organize his reasoning as to why it was okay to sleep over there but not here, especially when he was already here, and there was someone who wanted him to be here. It was really hard to do. One location seemed very equal to the other and he felt so tired. His limbs felt leaden and the trek back to the couch looked so tedious. It had been a long time since he'd been slept next to someone. Well, other than that time a few days ago when he'd woke humping on Sylar.
He twitched at the memory, still embarrassed and angry about Sylar's intrusion. Oh. Yeah. That. Yeah, okay, I need to go over to the couch then. He patted Sylar's forearm in a friendly fashion and then stroked it in a fashion that was quite a bit more than friendly - because it felt good and he assumed Sylar would let him and he was sort of saying he was sorry he wouldn't sleep with him while copping a feel of his arm. It was complicated. Peter didn't try to make sense of it, nor of the surge of tingling warmth he could feel suffusing his entire hand. He just pulled himself to his feet and meandered over to the couch, having come only one stray thought from joining Sylar for the night in his tiny bed.
XXX
Still Peter lingered and still Sylar gazed back at him in a disgustingly besotted, seductive, relaxed way. Don’t leave. This is really nice. Apart from the taste in my mouth…The younger man began looking for escape as was inevitable. Sylar felt his face twist as a retroactive reaction to Peter patting his arm ‘good bye/good night’. The budding protest he primed was swallowed upon feeling his arm being stroked. It tickled his brain it felt so good. His eyelids drooped and he felt high, aroused maybe, but not erect. The nurse pulled away and Sylar realized then that he’d stopped breathing. I don’t even care why he did it right now. Or ever, maybe. It was enough to allow Peter to leave his side, even though he allowed his fingers to try to grip at him briefly, sliding over skin with reticent longing as Peter moved away. He was happily dozing before Peter settled into the couch.
XXX
Continued...
[Chain Reactions]Day 21, New Year’s Eve, Evening
Good. Sylar got up and went about searching for a loose chain he’d had lying around. Literal chain. It was part of a clock’s pendulum that he’d been repairing before Peter appeared. He located it and dug about in his desk drawers for wire to tie the chain ends around Peter. As he did, he wondered what, if anything, he should be feeling about this opportunity, this situation.
XXX
He’s going to untie me after a little bit, right? What’s he going to do? Should I tell him what to do? But will that matter? Because once I’m tied up, it doesn’t matter what he promised, and that's the whole point. He wants me to show him I trust him. Can I do that? Peter was breathing harder already, a little bit of sweat damping his brow. He got to his feet, uncomfortable and trying to squelch his desire to fight back or run away, by taking some other action. He moved around the desk to sit in Sylar’s chair. He told himself he didn’t want to be restrained in something that had wheels on the bottom, but mainly he was just doing something so he had some feeling of control.
Peter held his hands behind his back, letting Sylar position them however he saw fit. He sat up straighter at the sight of the chain - not that he would have been any more able to escape from rope, but the unforgiving metal was a reinforcement that he wasn’t going to be going anywhere. He dipped his head and stared at his knees while Sylar restrained him, trying not to be nauseous.
XXX
“Take my chair, will you?” Sylar joked after the fact. The move made no sense. Aside from moving without permission or direction, it wasn’t going to pose any problems to the plan. Sylar made to kneel, wobbling slightly, then went about wrapping the chains (clock chains, how kinky) around Peter’s wrists. He slid the wire into the loops of chain, twisting and tying efficiently at the backs of Peter’s hands - away from fingers and palms that could free the man. The nurse would have to work (or negotiate) his way out. He thought Peter’s hands might have been shaking but he dismissed it as that pesky eye-motion of being drunk. All the same, he smoothed the man’s hands out straight, just to feel them (a little clammy), before standing, lingering unseen behind him.
XXX
Thoughts of other bindings slipped through Peter’s mind. The most parallel incident was being tied up in Ireland and then repeatedly beaten to a pulp by whatever degree of violence three very frustrated, hardened smugglers had wanted to visit on him. That was quite a bit of violence, as it turned out - broken bones in his face and jaw, no telling what else as he’d blacked out a few times and been rudely awakened. He would thank God for regeneration, but brown-haired Claire from the future had shown him how easy it was to torture someone who had that ability. He’d been tied down for that, too. Just like waking up powerless with his father, or handcuffed to the inside of that cargo container, or strapped down in level five, or helpless on a gurney as Mohinder came at him with a syringe. It had been Sylar who had released him then. He seized on that thought, turning to look at his captor with wide eyes and pale features that showed a lot more of his fear than he wanted them to. He tried not to think of all the reasons Sylar had to hurt him, but he still flinched back from him involuntarily, his expression shifting to an angry snarl to cover his anxiety.
XXX
“Stop that,” Sylar said parent-like, patronizing the snarl, tapping Peter’s cheek as he passed (assuming, testing that the man wouldn’t try to bite him). Seeing Peter tied up and combative…well, it reminded him of more sadistic, necessary times. Like confining and torturing Agent Simmons, a probably-attractive man who made a similar expression, spitting and holding out…Sylar paced around his catch, admiring the angles, the helplessness. Silly Peter. Once again he failed to set limits on his own Dares. Sylar had purposefully made them vague as part of the test and Peter…took it wholesale. It was brave and stupid. He didn’t speak, just circled. After a few rotations, he sat against his desk in front of Peter, looking at his face (it took extra effort not to cross his arms and lean like Nathan). He could smell the fear coming off Peter, who wasn’t trying to hide it; at least, he wasn’t doing a great job of hiding it. “Wo-ow…” Sylar slowly slurred facetiously before commanding seriously, “Relax.” Of course, he said that after he’d let the guy sweat it out. It was like good imagination training for Peter, picturing all the ways Sylar owned him in this moment.
XXX
Just shut up. This was a spectacularly bad idea, on par with getting carried away showing himself off and getting turned on by it. Peter did not always make the best decisions sober. What he was beginning to regret even more than letting himself be tied up was getting drunk to start with. If Sylar kept this up, the regret would extend to ever trusting him in any capacity. He glared ferociously at Sylar, chest heaving more than he wanted it to be doing as he pulled in short, rapid breaths through his open mouth. He kept up near-constant eye contact, thoughts wavering uncertainly between Sylar taking the opportunity to beat the crap out of him or perhaps kill him, or just scaring him a little and then letting him go. That he wasn't getting any signals either way made him think Sylar probably hadn't made up his mind. The perception of Sylar having an ambivalence that wouldn't rule out murder or torture made Peter very, very jumpy.
XXX
“This is usually the part where I tell you everything I can do to you while you’re helpless. It’s almost pointless now, huh? You never expected to be in this position, did you?” Sylar tilted his head to observe his companion. “Obviously not. You don’t set any limits and tha-at…” he lilted his voice, canting his head the opposite direction now, “leads to temptation.” The trust (or stupidity) was inviting trouble. Sylar didn’t know whether to honor it because being trusted was a sacred event, something he yearned for as a rite of passage to being respected, worthwhile, treated normally…Or if he should abuse it and teach Peter a lesson that offering himself up like this would have consequences; the empath shouldn’t presume upon Sylar’s self-control.
XXX
Are you honestly saying you haven't had the opportunity before now? And people say I'm slow … I've been aware of how helpless I was the entire fucking time I've been here! Any night I want I could bash your brains out or poison the milk and you could do the same to me. Peter would have intensified his glare if that were possible. As it was, his expression morphed into disgust. People were fragile - an elementary lesson Peter had figured out a very long time ago.
XXX
Sylar moved forward, straddling Peter’s legs, fairly close until the chair blocked his knees. This put him face to face with the shorter man who inhaled and leaned back. Peter was sweating and that wouldn’t do. Sylar’s head slanted at that. “What are you trying to prove?” he asked, curious, reaching for Peter’s confiscated shirt, bringing it up to dab away the sweat at Peter’s hairline. Perfect. It was like an autographed shirt now.
XXX
Peter pressed backwards in the chair at Sylar's untelegraphed approach, startled a second time when the guy literally sat on him. He restrained himself from shifting his knees under Sylar's buttocks, carrying most of Sylar's weight now. Bucking him off, kicking him, head-butting him - Peter didn't feel as helpless as Sylar implied he was. It wasn't like he was tied to the chair, which left him a lot of mobility, should he need to use it. Peter was still placing his bets on Sylar not getting carried away. He twitched his head back from the shirt coming at his face, but it wasn't enough to evade Sylar's reach. It jogged his mind into replaying when Caitlyn had performed nearly the same function, showing him a kindness that he had seized with desperation.
“I'm trying to prove I wasn't wrong in coming here.”
XXX
Sylar paused at everything but thinking for a moment. There was that expectation that Sylar had to meet to make it worth Peter's while. If he didn't play along, go along, do what was required of him, he'd have 'brought it on himself' and the effort to...find him (that was the best he could call it) would be worthless, the same as he would be. He would be responsible for Peter regretting finding him. It wasn't like there was a reason besides desperate need that Peter would come looking for him, as much as he caught himself wishing there was. "And I still don't like your reasons for doing it."
Finished with cleaning him, Sylar threw the shirt away for safekeeping, then dropped his hands to Peter’s throat. His palms and fingers flat against the soft column, his thumbs idly traced circles into the flesh without pressure. Hell, even Nathan agreed this was an attractive feature of Peter’s. Lazily, he sent a checking glance to the Italian’s eyes, which avoided his. His captive was tense and unhappy. A pity. It angered him but he couldn’t see a better, more mutual solution, so he ignored it with effort, but not after threatening by wrapping his hands lovingly around Peter’s neck in a stranglehold. It was light; he just wanted to make a point and defuse his anger.
XXX
Peter might have said something in response to that, but then Sylar’s hands were on his throat. Was the guy cold enough to calmly choke him to death, or until he passed out, simply because he could? Peter had little indication that he wasn’t. That he was even hinting at it, given Sylar’s record and Sylar knowing that Peter knew of that record, went beyond ‘fucking with you’ or ‘scaring you a little’ and well into sadistic. Although again, Peter had that impression that Sylar hadn’t made up his mind yet. Kill Peter/Don’t kill Peter - it was just an interesting question in the mind of a sociopath. One line in a story he’d read about sociopaths had stood out to him - a teen had drowned a neighbor child in the pool because he was curious about how long it would take him to die. Was that what was going on with Sylar? Abstract curiosity about how much he could abuse his companion?
Peter pulled his head back, looking away and continuing to look away. Sylar’s face, utterly lacking in empathy, revolted him. Peter made a couple throat noises in protest, swallowing and starting to twist his neck one way and then the other in a vain attempt to evade the contact. Sylar had grabbed him there before - during the fight, wasn’t it? Peter bared his teeth, face hard. His anger was starting to overwhelm his fear.
XXX
The reaction helped. Sylar wanted other reactions, more of…something - more protest or invitation, interaction, something. It would have to do. “Shh,” was all he said, doing no more than flexing his fingers harmlessly before releasing and moving on. His hands slid down to the man’s shoulders, testing them with familiar squeezes. This was an overtly Petrelli gesture, one he’d performed (successfully!) before. It was…comforting. Maybe it would help relax Peter as well. His hands traveled over clavicles to pectorals. These he pushed, not to shove Peter back into the chair, but to test…what, firmness? He didn’t know; he just did, following his instincts. Peter’s nipples were hard, his flesh prickly with goose bumps. Interesting… Sylar bent a little to view them better, circling the tight oval buds with his fingertips. He wasn’t sure what to expect for this.
XXX
Sylar moved on from the dangerous grip on his throat. Peter let out a tense breath at the shoulder squeeze, wondering what that was all about. The normally-friendly motion stopped the upward spiral of his rage. His eyes went back to Sylar’s face, but Peter still wasn’t getting what he wanted there, or what he needed. The guy was back to being a pain in the ass and a problem, pawing Peter’s chest now in a manner that was damnably stimulating. Peter gritted his teeth, feeling his skin prickle in involuntary response. Sylar stared at Peter’s nipples like he’d only just noticed them. That look and presumptive touch that followed it made Peter want to punch him. He squirmed, flexing his arms against the chains. They were firm enough and unyielding, the metal pressing into his skin at the pressure. No easy way out there. He pulled his feet back, shifting his center of gravity.
Sylar didn’t seem to notice, as he teased around Peter’s nipples with exploring fingers, oblivious and inconsiderate of the desires of the owner of those sensitive parts. “Hey!” Peter barked to get his attention. “No. The dare was you could tie me up, not molest me.”
XXX
Sylar looked up, an eyebrow raised in question and curiosity. This is molesting you? “You’re the one who didn’t put any limits on it in the first place.” He didn’t appreciate being given limits now, so he pinched the protrusions to be a jerk.
XXX
Okay, that’s it! “Get off of me!” Peter stood up, dumping Sylar on the floor. The guy had placed most of his weight on Peter’s knees rather than any closer on his lap, so it wasn’t that hard to get up and let gravity do its work on him. Peter had recovered a lot of mobility in the last week - he didn’t limp at all anymore and he didn’t need to use his arms to stand. As he stood over the man, he snarled at him, “I don’t need to put limits on it! Unless you plan on killing me, you’re going to be dealing with me tomorrow, along with the consequences of what you do tonight.” He said the last through bared teeth.
XXX
One minute his hands were on Peter, the next Sylar was up-ended on his ass. Mostly he was confused as to how he got there - Peter had lifted his whole weight using his knees? He certainly failed to predict any attack other than verbal from his supposed-captive. That captive was now upright, looming over him, bare-chested with his arms tied behind his back, looking extremely volatile. I did not see this coming, didn’t plan for it. Oh, crap. Sylar could really only manage a stunned expression, staring up at Peter with wide eyes. He was going to be kicked, he didn’t question that. It took him far too long to respond. “Then how do I know where the limits are?” Petrelli’s logic made no sense. His tone perplexed, Sylar clarified, “So I need to kill you in pre-emptive self-defense?”
XXX
He crowded Sylar threateningly, discouraging him from getting up with the implication that he might kick him if he split his attention enough to attempt it. “You don’t like my reasons for being here? Fine! Give me some better ones. Tell me why I should have dropped everything and flown across the country to set my brother’s killer free so he could go on doing the same thing he’s been doing for the last few years - ruining people’s lives, or ending them, or maybe just tying them up and scaring the crap out of them - whatever happened to make you happy at the time. Tell me why I should care about someone like that.”
XXX
Sylar found his back against the desk, his body way too close to Peter’s boots. There was no space to stand up. He would have to move right and slither around the corner of the desk towards more space…Already, he was in motion to do just that, anything to get away, awkwardly lifting and backwards crawling his retreat. It was the words Peter hurled, more than the threat of violence, that angered him. “Well, then I guess your only reason is my usefulness! That’s the only reason there ever is! I never asked you for anything!” Sylar spat his reply, making it clear that Peter was here of his own free will and that Sylar hadn’t overstepped himself in requesting, demanding, pleading for something above his worth. He couldn’t give Peter a better reason and he couldn’t decide who to blame more, himself or Peter and the rest of the world. His eye line finally dropped from Peter’s upper body, mostly his face, to target the man’s legs, giving serious consideration to the idea of kicking, even maiming Peter with a kick or two as his expression lifted into a snarl. Impulsivity and reactive, unprocessed anger won out and he kicked at the floor near Peter’s feet to make a statement that he wasn’t taking this or any other shit; in doing so, purposefully swatting the bee’s nest, pulling the tiger’s tail, knowing that and doing it anyway. Get away from me!
He was around the desk now, so Peter would have to follow him. As it was, Sylar was managing to sit up and make it to hands and knees; feeling like his vision wasn’t working right because the world was blurry. He was trying to hurry and having mixed results given his balance. If he could just stand, he’d have the advantage.
XXX
Peter stayed on top of Sylar as the man retreated, weathering a few flailing blows at him in the process. For a little while, he could keep to the side of Sylar's long legs, but when Sylar got around the desk and ran up against his bed, chair off to the side, Peter had no choice but to back off. He didn't want to hurt Sylar (he'd never so much as started to kick him), but he'd sure encouraged the impression of immediate danger. Now he lashed out verbally. "You want more! If you didn't want me to have other reasons, then you wouldn't resent the ones I have!" Backing up a little, he jerked his chin up challengingly and demanded, "Give me better reasons, Sylar."
XXX
As he stood, Peter stopped advancing, but he didn’t stop talking. Sylar looked down and off to the side. ‘Give me a reason to save you,’ that’s what Peter meant. The answer was still the same: his skills and scientific value were the only reasons for preserving his life, the only things keeping him alive. Petrelli knew it and insisted in rubbing his face in it. What do you want me to say? I already basically admitted I’m worthless, barely useful for the moment. The message he was getting was he couldn’t wish for more out of this or any other situation; laid to rest was the idea of getting help. Accept it and be grateful even though it’s wrong? That made him so hopelessly angry; he had no grounds for argument, no bargaining chips, no favorable history. He wanted to defend and advocate for himself, tell of his great, special worth he knew didn’t exist; he wanted to beg for mercy so he could be accepted again because he had a feeling Peter was right but he was disgusted, loathing himself, feeling more anger for that cursed instinct. How had everything gotten so out of control? Peter was totally vulnerable and here he was making Sylar feel like this.
“Sit down,” he croaked, separating the words as best he could. It was all he could think to say. He wanted Peter seated so he wasn’t a threat, he wanted to regain control, and he still, stupidly, didn’t want Peter to leave. The game had been fun, for the most part, until now. He didn’t want to release Peter or change his behavior to suit the man in any way, but if the medic was going to be this mean and moody, Sylar would untie him, lest Peter inevitably find him at fault in yet another way.
XXX
Peter milled around the living room uneasily, keeping his eyes on Sylar nearly the whole time. Peter was still tied up; Sylar was on his feet now. Sylar looked awfully unsteady, but Peter had just chewed his head off. Sylar looked crushed, frustrated, and angry. One favorite way for people to deal with such emotions was to beat down the source of them. When would the retaliation come? Peter wasn't sure what he could do about it when it happened - running away wasn't a good option. Getting the front door open while being attacked would be impossible; counter-attacking was going to be pretty rough and his attempts so far to slip his bonds weren't going well. He'd obviously managed to get his bluff in on Sylar after dumping him on his ass, but it was a play he probably couldn't run twice. When he wasn't watching Sylar, he was glancing around the room, taking stock of his options. They didn't look good.
XXX
“Sit your ass down so I can untie you, you ungrateful punk,” Sylar snapped, scraping his hair back with an agitated hand, waiting for compliance.
XXX
You're going to untie me? Peter gave Sylar an uncertain, breath-holding look, waiting to see if a second shoe would fall. There didn't seem to be much combat advantage to Sylar getting him seated again - Peter felt just as easy to beat up on his feet as he would sitting. He moved to the chair slowly, sitting down sideways on it, facing away with his bound hands proffered hopefully.
XXX
When Peter sat, Sylar crouched down to see where the wire connected. “It’s so convenient that you’re the only one who gets to judge and you won’t trust me or give me any chances to prove myself. Your system doesn’t work; it never has and it doesn’t work here,” he sneered, freeing the man’s hands and stepping back in anticipation of an altercation. “I suggest you stay put or I’m not going to take it well,” he said as a warning. With that, he walked back to Peter’s previous seat, the wheeled chair that belonged to the desk, keeping his distance from Peter as he did. He sat with his arms across his chest and a depressed, watch-your-step glower.
XXX
Aside from turning to sit properly in the chair, Peter stayed put. He regarded Sylar with curiosity, frankly surprised the episode was over. After a few seconds of silence, he started to speak. “I don't-”
XXX
Sylar turned to him and held up a hand, “Shut up. I don’t care, I don’t want to hear it. I pick Dare.”
XXX
Peter drew in a deep breath and let it out. I don't get to speak; don't get to explain myself. Okay. He glanced down thoughtfully, rubbing at the impressions the chain had made on his wrists. He's comfortable enough with me to tell me to stuff it and expect me to do it. Three weeks ago, I think he'd have gotten more upset, listened and reacted. We're … I think we're getting better with each other. Peter shook his head. “I'm not going to play anymore,” he said quietly. “I'm tired, we're both drunk, and this is getting really serious. Let's get some sleep.” Before something happens that we can't walk away from.
XXX
Sylar closed his eyes and pursed his lips in an effort to control his outburst of rage and frustration. He wanted to tear every hair from Peter’s head, preferably in clumps. At that same time, nausea rose up in him, protesting his churning stomach and it’s alcoholic contents. He turned green, breathed harder to keep things smooth…to no avail. Sylar dashed for the bathroom, making it in time to vomit into the toilet in misery. His mouth was sour, his stomach was sour, he was sure his soul was sour, too. Feeling brittle, bitter and embarrassed, he spit and swiped at his face, pushing his hair back with his other hand. What did any of it matter? He was worthless and in addition to wanting to die, he felt like he physically could now.
XXX
Peter watched Sylar's expression darken, then shift, right before the guy fled to the bathroom. The door was left open in his haste; the sound of emesis turning Peter's stomach a little in sympathy. He waited a beat before rising. He announced himself as he entered the small bathroom. “Sylar, I'm coming in. Stay put.” He pulled down the hand towel next to the sink and wet it, crouching next to Sylar.
Peter balanced himself by his left shoulder against the door of the cabinet under the sink. He reached out with his right slowly towards Sylar's face, brushing the hair out of the way with his fingertips. He followed it with the dampened hand towel, repeating the motions Sylar had used on him only minutes earlier to dab away frightened sweat. In a calm, neutral tone, he said, "You proved yourself just now by untying me, and doing that after I'd blown up at you. Someone who was mean and liked hurting people wouldn't have passed up the opportunity, especially with the excuse. But it's not your first instinct. I see that. You're giving me better reasons, Sylar, even when you don't think you are." He reached past Sylar to toggle the toilet, flushing away the foul.
XXX
Sylar sat still, caught between protesting and melting into the caring touches. He couldn’t help the feeling; it felt good to be babied a little. He could help his reaction and that was what he had to control; he just wasn’t sure what, if any, reaction was appropriate or expected. Surely being neutral about it wouldn’t get him into too much hot water…Slowly Peter’s words penetrated his mental fog. Not my first instinct? How…? But…? It is, though. The depressive wave drowned him again at the remembrance of his own nature. I don’t take care of things; I’m not nice; why would he think that? It felt wrong to let Peter walk away unscathed after making those comments and assumptions but Sylar rationalized it with his own unfit condition. I’m…tired. I’ll get him in the morning. Stomach feeling somewhat purged, drowsiness was his next state of being. He wanted to cling to Peter with very little reason. (I didn’t mean to upset you, I just wanted…I don’t know what I wanted, something stupid probably). His defensiveness demanded that he make a statement, “I’m drunk and drunk people do stupid things. Mercy is not…a permanent character flaw. The Dare was just…over.” That’s all. (Don’t excuse my behavior. If you give me an out, I’ll take it and that’s the problem. I’ll pay for it later when you expect more of it or something).
XXX
“Mercy is not a character flaw,” Peter said softly. He glanced over Sylar, not seeing anything in particular that needed cleaning, but a cool cloth and a pleasant distraction could do more for nausea than most medicines. He wiped one side and then the other of Sylar's face, offering him the towel to see to his mouth. Peter sank to the floor, back against the cabinet, legs bent. He was tired and his stomach a little upset as well. They hadn't had anything to eat for a while - nothing to buffer the alcohol and the near-fight didn't help. “Let's get some sleep. We can talk more tomorrow.”
XXX
Closing his eyes for a moment, allowing the terrycloth to dab at his face was soothing, his breath starting and stopping at the simple sensations. God, you’re pathetic. No sooner had he thought it than Peter handed the towel off and made to move away. Is he leaving? Nooo… Sylar reached out and caught his fingers in Peter’s jeans (what little grip he could get in the tight, unyielding fabric). The other man sat to his relief. Stay; yes. “No, we won’t,” Sylar said grimly, self-assured. “We won’t talk about it tomorrow or any other time. Even if we do, nothing changes tomorrow or the next day…It’s just…nature and nature continues itself.” He gestured, his elbow still propped against the rim of the toilet. Faking a brilliant smile for a few seconds, he slurred his way through, “Shh. It’ll be our little secret.” Nothing has to change. Change is scary and you don’t know what you’re talking about.
XXX
Peter watched Sylar talk more than he listened to the words. You look really sad that we won't talk about it. I wonder what it is he doesn't want to talk about? Peter smiled at Sylar's smile - even if inauthentic, it was still a nice smile. And the 'it's our little secret' …? He decided to take that one as a joke, even if Sylar seemed creepily serious about it. “Yeah, a secret no one else in the whole world knows about.” Peter chuckled, looking away to stare ahead, which put the bathroom door as the only thing to see. Sylar was more interesting, so he looked back and rambled helpfully, “We can talk about whatever you want to talk about. You know. Pretty much. Within limits, I guess.”
XXX
Drowsiness turned to sleepiness, his head feeling heavy, body lax and warm, Sylar had the random and ridiculous urge to slide into bed around Peter. He wasn’t thinking that his bed was a cot, hardly big enough for the two of them and the fact that Peter wouldn’t be caught dead sleeping close to him. He’d make the perfect teddy bear - he’s so soft. “Come,” he meant ‘come on,’ but he simply forgot the last word, his mouth wouldn’t form it or something, and was too tired or lazy to include it. He indicated for Peter to rise and follow him as he stood. “Come,” he took an unseeing, loose hold of some part of Peter, jeans, body, it didn’t matter as he reached back, trying to lead his companion to the mattress.
XXX
Peter got to his feet, the rise from floor to standing more difficult to keep his balance through than the transition from chair to feet. He waited while Sylar passed him, getting tugged along by Sylar reaching back and gripping at his forearm. It was only a few steps to Sylar's bed and he'd made two of them before he realized Sylar wasn't trying to direct him to sit in the office chair or lead him over to look at something on the desk. Peter stopped, slipping free of Sylar's loose hold. A wash of wariness swept away some of the inebriated exhaustion that had started to fog his thinking. It wasn't nearly as fogged as it needed to be for that to work on him. Peter would have been madder about being led to the guy's bed if he'd thought Sylar was more sober. He muttered something in the negative and went to the couch, picking at the folded blanket and sheet set off to the side at one end.
XXX
Peter moved away and left Sylar watching from his seat on the bed with a crushing loneliness as Peter set up his sleeping area on the couch. It was close, they were in the same room, but it wasn’t close enough and he didn’t want to let it drop. “Can I sleep with you?” he blurted, not intending to say that at all. It was truthful and sure to be shot down.
XXX
That sounds so sad. And pathetic. And what would it hurt? Peter hesitated, blanket partly spread across the couch, mid-glance over at Sylar as a reaction to the words. Wordlessly leading him to bed got Peter's back up - it was presumptuous, irritating, and scary. But asking? His shoulders sagged and the edge of the blanket slithered out of his fingers. Asking worked. Sort of. “No, but-” Peter stepped over to him, gesturing at Sylar's bed. “Lie down. I'll … sit next to you for a little bit.”
XXX
No. Of course it was ‘no.’ Despite it being time for bed and his tiredness, Sylar didn’t want to sleep, not alone, not so far away. What he needed was so vague he couldn’t label it; he just knew falling asleep near or against Peter would content him. The alternative was, just as vaguely, frightening; something about the lights going out and being alone and defenseless against what was coming. He glanced up hopefully at the second part of the sentence. Really? It wasn’t exactly what he wanted, but it would help. What is wrong with me? Trusting Peter Petrelli to sit over me while I try to sleep? What good will that do? He turned, lying down and began to situate himself, looking up at the suddenly very tall medic. I wonder if this is a bad idea, he ruminated blandly, unworried about the probability or even possibility. Do parents do this? Is that…I don’t know.
XXX
I've seen futons wider than this. Peter helped drape the blanket over Sylar and then nudged at his hip to get him to scoot over. It was barely enough space to sit on. He looked at the chair and considered rolling it close, but didn't. He could already feel a little of the warmth of Sylar's form through the thin blankets and he liked it. Peter was cool and still shirtless. He glanced around, but he'd missed wherever Sylar had put the shirt. He assumed it was on the other side of the desk, probably on top of the pile of board games. That seemed impossibly far away at the moment. It was easier to look at Sylar's face than consider where the shirt was. It was such a handsome face.
XXX
The assistance and nudging, the implied soon-to-be-reality contact caused Sylar to give a hum of pleasure. Peter wouldn’t bother with all of this just to hurt him, so this was safe to feel. He could feel sleep creeping closer to him; for now he lazily watched Peter look around the room before focusing on Sylar again. Peter looked at him and Sylar looked back, enduring a welter of reactions, reasons and emotions about it. He felt warm and fuzzy as he enjoyed the attention; he would have been completely satisfied, fulfilled even, if Peter lay beside him. Perhaps that’s what he was trying to convey with everything tonight.
XXX
The allure of lying down right here was strong. They'd managed to get through the evening without beating each other up; many truths had been exchanged, secrets shared, trust built. Sylar was right here, human, warm, trying to be friendly, and succeeding wildly at not being offensive or threatening. He was clothed; Peter was at least wearing jeans, so nothing would happen, right? Peter was about as drunk as he could be and still walk straight. Looked at soberly, the evening was a collection of increasingly poor decisions - telling things he probably shouldn't have, stripping and being turned on by it, asking invasive questions, and letting himself be tied up. But he wasn't sober.
Peter pulled his eyes away from Sylar's, looking vacantly in the direction of the couch. He was struggling to organize his reasoning as to why it was okay to sleep over there but not here, especially when he was already here, and there was someone who wanted him to be here. It was really hard to do. One location seemed very equal to the other and he felt so tired. His limbs felt leaden and the trek back to the couch looked so tedious. It had been a long time since he'd been slept next to someone. Well, other than that time a few days ago when he'd woke humping on Sylar.
He twitched at the memory, still embarrassed and angry about Sylar's intrusion. Oh. Yeah. That. Yeah, okay, I need to go over to the couch then. He patted Sylar's forearm in a friendly fashion and then stroked it in a fashion that was quite a bit more than friendly - because it felt good and he assumed Sylar would let him and he was sort of saying he was sorry he wouldn't sleep with him while copping a feel of his arm. It was complicated. Peter didn't try to make sense of it, nor of the surge of tingling warmth he could feel suffusing his entire hand. He just pulled himself to his feet and meandered over to the couch, having come only one stray thought from joining Sylar for the night in his tiny bed.
XXX
Still Peter lingered and still Sylar gazed back at him in a disgustingly besotted, seductive, relaxed way. Don’t leave. This is really nice. Apart from the taste in my mouth…The younger man began looking for escape as was inevitable. Sylar felt his face twist as a retroactive reaction to Peter patting his arm ‘good bye/good night’. The budding protest he primed was swallowed upon feeling his arm being stroked. It tickled his brain it felt so good. His eyelids drooped and he felt high, aroused maybe, but not erect. The nurse pulled away and Sylar realized then that he’d stopped breathing. I don’t even care why he did it right now. Or ever, maybe. It was enough to allow Peter to leave his side, even though he allowed his fingers to try to grip at him briefly, sliding over skin with reticent longing as Peter moved away. He was happily dozing before Peter settled into the couch.
XXX
Continued...